


Nerves

by chanderson



Series: Young, Scrappy, and Hungry [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: George Washington is about to be the youngest man ever elected President. He's a little nervous about it.





	1. Election Night

**Author's Note:**

> Like it says, this is set in the same verse as my story Mommy Dearest. George is 36 and Alex is 26. I suggest reading the other work first. Hope you enjoy, and comments are always appreciated!

It’s all coming down to Pennsylvania. George’s entire future hinges on how a bunch of people in rural Pennsylvania decide to vote. Alex absolutely hates this.

They’re in Richmond at a big hotel. They started the day in Mt. Vernon; George wanted to be home for the day, but as the polls started to close, they made their way to Richmond so they could be with George’s supporters. 

Alex is standing out on the balcony outside of the suite—they’ve got the penthouse suite for the evening—chain smoking shitty Marlboro cigarettes. Angelica is sitting next to him, periodically waving away his smoke and sipping a gin martini. Alex smiles ruefully. 

“I would judge you for drinking, but I’ve lost track of how many cigarettes I’ve smoked, so I’m really not in a position to judge.”

Angelica smirks at him and finishes off her drink. “Does the Governor know you’re smoking?” 

_Yes; he smelled it on me when we went and fucked in the second bedroom_. 

“I don’t know.” Alex shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in a while. I think he’s sleeping in the other bedroom. The door’s been locked most of the night.” 

Alex doesn’t mention that George was most definitely doing something other than sleeping about an hour ago.

“I hope he’s okay. He kind of looked like he was gonna hurl earlier.”

“Yeah I know right. I mean, I don’t blame him.” Alex crushes the cigarette in the ashtray and coughs into his arm. “Jesus my mouth tastes like an ashtray.”

“I wonder why?” Angelica smirks at him and stands up. “It’s getting cold out here. I’m gonna head back inside.”

“I think I will too.” Alex sticks his pack and lighter into his pocket and follows Angelica inside. Everyone is either huddled around the TV or walking around aimlessly, trying to distract themselves. Lafayette is carrying around an entire bottle of champagne, which Alex suspects must be getting close to empty by now. 

When Lafayette sees him, he hurries over, only stumbling a little. 

“Alex—” He cuts himself off and leans in, sniffing Alex’s shirt. “You smell disgusting.”

“We all have our methods of coping,” Alex says, motioning to the green bottle in Lafayette’s hand. Lafayette rolls his eyes and waves his other hand. 

“Unimportant. Anyway, listen, I can’t get George to come out of the stupid bedroom. I’m like two seconds away from breaking the door down. Can you talk to him?” 

Alex raises his eyebrows and smirks. “I thought you wanted me to stay away from him?”

“Again, unimportant,” Lafayette says impatiently. “Now I’m serious. Please get him to come out. They’re going to be calling it soon, and he needs to be out here. He is the candidate after all.” 

“Right. Gotcha.” Alex pats Lafayette’s shoulder and makes his way to the second bedroom on the other side of the suite, dodging various staffers as he goes. 

When he reaches the door he knocks loudly. “Hey George; It’s Alex. Can I come in?” he says, leaning close to the door. He hears rustling on the other side of the door, and then George opens it up just enough for Alex to slip in. 

“Did Lafayette send you?” George asks. He’s in only his undershirt and dress pants—his suit jacket, dress shirt, and tie are hanging neatly on hangers perched on the bathroom door frame. 

“Yeah, sorry. Is everything okay?” Alex sits on the bed and pats the space next to him. “It smells like puke in here.” George sighs and sits next to him. 

“I know. I’m so fucking nervous that I threw up. Multiple times. I didn’t know people actually did that until I started doing it.”

“Human emotions suck, man,” Alex deadpans. George huffs a laugh and nods. 

“They really do.” George flops back on the bed and groans. “How awful is it that I’m having second thoughts?”

“About being president?” Alex turns and looks at George; he closes his eyes and nods. 

“Yeah.”

“Pretty fucking awful.” 

George winces and cracks his eyes open to look at Alex. “I think it’s just the nerves, you know?”

“Are you nervous about winning or losing?” Alex asks. “Or both?”

“Both.” George sits up and takes a deep breath. “What if I’m not good enough to be president? What if I win and it turns out my mom was right about me? That I’m not smart or capable or—”

“George,” Alex says sternly, cutting him off. “You’re going to win and you’re going to be an amazing president.” 

George sighs and nods. “I really do need to get out there.” 

“Yeah you really do.” Alex quips. He gets George’s shirt and coat for him. “They’ll want to take pictures of you watching the results.”

George gets dressed, and Alex makes sure his tie is straight. He stands up on his toes and kisses George. “One last good luck kiss.” 

“Thanks sweetheart.” They leave the room together, and Lafayette immediately walks over. The bottle of champagne has suspiciously disappeared. 

“Thank you Ham,” Lafayette says, his words slightly slurred. “Governor, you need to go in there and watch the results. They’re calling it soon.”

“Gilbert are you drunk?” George asks, frowning. 

“A little. But Sir, I’m not the only one. Angelica has had too many martinis to count. And plus, our Ham here has smoked almost a whole pack of shitty cigarettes. As Ham so eloquently put it, we all have our methods of coping. You locked yourself in a room for over four hours, Sir.”

“And he threw up. Multiple times,” Alex adds, smirking at George. 

“I wouldn’t call that coping, but good for you, Governor. Are you feeling better?”

“Marginally.” 

They walk into the flurry of activity, and Alex notices George visibly tense. 

“Hey,” Alex whispers, putting a hand on his forearm. “Don’t worry. Whatever happens, happens. I’ll be proud no matter what.” George smiles, his eyes full of something Alex can’t quite name.

“Thank you Alexander.” 

“Governor,” Aaron calls, waving his arms. “They’re getting ready to call Pennsylvania!” 

“I guess this is it, then,” George says. He walks over to the couch and stands behind it. CNN is on and Wolf Blitzer is listening as John King points at the electoral map, motioning to the different, jigsaw counties of Pennsylvania. 

Alex walks over and stands next to George. “Whatever happens, happens,” Alex reminds him. 

Somewhere next to them a camera flashes, capturing the moment. 

“If I throw up right here on the floor, would they take pictures of it? Or would they pity me and act like it didn’t happen?” 

Alex laughs and bumps George with his shoulder. “They would definitely take pictures, but you’re not going to throw up on the floor, so it doesn’t matter.”

“You sound so confident,” George mutters, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

“Just breathe, George. It’s _fine_. Look at all that blue.” Alex motions to the map of Pennsylvania. “Those counties are going for you. This election is yours.”

_Alright, I have just been told that we’re ready to call the state of Pennsylvania. With 99% of the precincts reporting, CNN can now confirm that Governor George Washington has been elected the 45th President of the United States._

A raucous cheer erupts, and it’s so loud that Alex is sure he’s going to have permanent hearing damage. All at once, people start jumping up and hugging each other. Lafayette literally picks Angelica up and spins her around. Aaron, in a rare show of emotion, hops up and lets out a whoop. 

Alex grins and turns to George, his eyes welling up with tears. “I fucking told you that you would win,” he shouts over the noise. He hugs George tightly, pressing his face into George’s chest. He doesn’t give a damn who sees. 

When he finally lets go of George, George has tears in his eyes too, but he quickly tries to blink them back. He gives Alex a watery smile.

“I’m going to be president,” he says, laughing. “I’m going to be _president_.” 

Lafayette bounds up then and grabs George, hooking his arm around George’s neck. 

“You, my very best, oldest friend, are about to be president of the United States,” he shouts, jostling George around. George laughs and stumbles a bit. 

“Thank you Gilbert. I couldn’t have done it with you.” George laughs again as Lafayette plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“Lawrence would be very proud of you.” 

George nods and fresh tears spring up in his eyes. This time, one trails its way down his cheek. 

“He would be,” George finally manages to say, his voice thick with emotions. 

“And so would Martha,” Lafayette says, sounding surprisingly sober. “She would be very proud of you George.” 

George just nods, too choked up to say anything. He takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. 

“I’m gonna get a drink to celebrate,” Alex says quickly, feeling a little awkward watching George get weepy over his dead wife. He gives George a small smile before heading over to where Angelica is pouring people generous plastic cups of champagne.

“Alex!” she says, grinning. “You, my good man, need a drink right now.” Alex laughs and accepts the cup she hands him. 

“Thanks. How drunk are you, by the way?”

“Not enough.” She grins and tips back her own cup of champagne. “You better catch up, Ham.”

“You do know that we have to go downstairs and George has to give a speech, right?”

“Hey, all I’ve gotta do is stand there. No one will even notice.” 

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” Lafayette suddenly shouts at the top of his lungs. Alex and Angelica both whip their heads around to stare at Lafayette. “Thank you,” he says once the room is quiet. “The governor—excuse me, the p _resident-elect_ , needs to take Senator Jefferson’s call.” 

George smiles sheepishly as he takes the phone from Lafayette. He walks to the corner of the room for some privacy, and everyone starts to murmur and mill around again. 

When George finishes the phone call he walks back to the center of the room. “Senator Jefferson has officially conceded,” he says, grinning. “I’d say it’s time to go talk to our supporters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short; the next ones will be longer!


	2. Inauguration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is about to be inaugurated, but thoughts of his wife haunt him.

“You know, it’s really pathetic, but I’m so nervous that I threw up and didn’t get any sleep. I’m just hoping the eye bags aren’t too bad,” George says as he turns the shower on. “I’ve really got to stop doing that—the whole nervous throwing up thing. It’s embarrassing and a little pathetic.” 

George starts to get undressed. He glances in the mirror and grimaces. “Okay, the eye bags are pretty bad.” He tests the water and steps into the shower, sighing as the hot spray pounds into his sore back. “I’m just so fucking nervous. I mean, I know the actual swearing in isn’t until tomorrow, but what if I mess up the words? I feel like I’m going to forget what he says and repeat it back to him wrong. Or I’m worried I’m going to throw up. Again. I have to leave for D.C. today and stay in Blair House tomorrow night before I get sworn in. I’ve got like a hundred million things to do today and tomorrow, and I’m so tired, Martha. I just want to sleep.” 

George grabs his body wash and squirts a generous amount onto his washcloth. “Honestly, I just really don’t want to mess up the swearing in. I mean, how awful would that be if I messed that up, Martha?” he asks as he starts to wash his body, scrubbing off the grime of a night spent in the bathroom. “I can already see the headlines now.” 

He still feels vaguely disgusting, so he decides washing himself again wouldn’t hurt. He squirts some more body wash onto the wash cloth. 

“God I wish you were here, Martha,” he says softly as he rubs the wash cloth down his arms. “You would get a brand new dress to wear to the ceremony—I would suggest blue of course—and you would look so beautiful up there with me. America would love you. Not as much as I do, but they would still love you.” 

George’s legs are suddenly shaky, so he drops the wash cloth onto the ground with a splat and lowers himself to the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest. 

“I miss you so much sometimes that it hurts. It’s like a physical ache, you know? Some days it feels like I have this huge weight on my chest and it’s hard to even get out of bed. It still happens. It happened last night. I thought this feeling would go away, but it never really does. It still hits me sometimes and it’s so fucking painful.”

George can feel his chest starting to constrict, so he starts counting in his head— _One, two, three, four, five. Five, four, three, two, one_ —and it helps a little. 

Right after Martha died, five years ago, His therapist told him that talking to her would help him when he got overwhelmed. He felt ridiculous at first, but it does help. It comforts him in a way that he can’t really explain. 

He had a panic attack last night, the first one in a while. Alex slept over, their last relatively safe night together isolated out here at Mt. Vernon, but that somehow made it worse. He dreamed about Martha. George hasn’t dreamed about her in forever. 

It wasn’t a bad dream. It was actually a good dream, which only made it more painful. He woke up with an aching pain in his chest. George was about to be sworn in as the president of the United States and all he wanted was his wife back. Alex was there sleeping next to him, but George wanted it to be Martha. 

The guilt and the nerves and the longing all culminated into an epic, 4 a.m. panic attack locked away in the guest bathroom all the way across the house where Alex wouldn’t hear him. 

He alternated between vomiting, hyperventilating, and crying for a solid two hours. It wasn’t pretty. He hasn’t actually _cried_ since his mother’s funeral. Sure he got a little choked up on election night. A few tears slipped out during his acceptance speech, but that actually ended up playing in his favor. Apparently the American people like when their handsome, black presidents cry a little. 

Last night would have them changing their tune. 

“I need you here, Martha,” George says, taking a shuddering breath. “The White House is going to feel so empty without you. I _need_ you okay? I just really need you beside me, because I don’t know if I can do this. I’m afraid my mother was right about me. I’m still so fucking scared that I’m going to get into that office and mess everything up. What if she was ri—”

“George? You okay?” Alex says, knocking on the door.

George jerks his head up quickly, stomach dropping. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.” He quickly stands up and shuts off the rapidly cooling water. “I got distracted.” 

“Are you nervous puking?” Alex jokes.

“No, no. I’m just—I zoned out. It happens,” George says, trying to keep his voice even. 

“I’m just messing with you, baby. I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

George yanks his clothes on and stares at himself in the mirror. He goes over what he knows. 

Martha is dead. Alex is here. He is going to D.C. for his inauguration. 

He walks into the kitchen and inhales the smell of coffee and eggs. It makes him a little nauseous. 

“Hey,” Alex says, kissing George gently. “I made you coffee and a cheese omelette.”

“Thanks sweetheart.” George sits down and takes a cautious sip of the coffee. Coffee, he decides, he can manage. Eggs? Not so much. He drinks the coffee, but mostly just pushes the omelette around his plate.

“Not hungry?” Alex asks quietly as George scrapes his plate off. 

“Not really.” George sets his plate in the sink and sighs. “Alex, I’m fucking terrified of this inauguration ceremony. I don’t think I can do it.”

“You shouldn’t be. I know you can do it,” Alex says softly. George stands there and just looks at Alex, drinking him in. He’s so beautiful, and it still catches George off guard sometimes.

“We aren’t going to be able to do this anymore,” George whispers, motioning between them. “Who knows when you’ll be able to cook me breakfast again.” 

“Hey, shh. I’m going to be working with you every day. We’ll make it work. You don’t worry about that right now.” Alex grips the back of his neck and squeezes it soothingly. George feels himself relax. 

“I love you,” George sighs. 

“I love you too.” Alex starts to clean the kitchen up, and George moves to help him, but Alex holds his hand up. “I’ll clean this morning.”

“Thanks.” George sits back down at the breakfast island and leans on his arms. 

“Oh, by the way,” Alex says, looking at George over his shoulder. “Do you always talk to yourself in the shower? Because I swear I’ve never heard you do that before.” Alex’s tone is teasing, but George feels his stomach roil. 

“What?” George asks nervously, working to try and keep his expression neutral.

Alex looks at George and frowns. “You were talking to yourself this morning in the shower. I’m just teasing you, though.” 

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” George takes a deep breath. “It’s a coping mechanism. It calms me down.”

Alex looks a little confused, but he nods and shrugs. “Okay; that’s cool. Like I always say, we’ve all got our own ways of coping.” 

George nods. Of course, his coping method is getting violently ill and talking to his dead wife, but whatever. “We should get ready soon. You need to be at Blair House by nine so you can get settled in. You’ve got that event thing at ten-thirty; I already forgot what it is.”

“Right. I just need to step out and get some air, take another walk around the property for old time’s sake.”

“Alright; I’ll shower.”

George nods, relieved that Alex realizes George needs to be alone. “Sounds good sweetheart.” George presses a soft kiss to Alex’s forehead and goes outside, breathing in the crisp air. It instantly clears his head a little. 

He starts to walk aimlessly, slowly trailing through the paths beaten down by years of long walks. He pulls his phone out and calls Lafayette. 

“Hello Mr. President-elect,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. 

“Can you call me George right now?” George asks quietly. 

“Of course.” Lafayette sounds worried. “Is everything okay?”

“I had a panic attack last night. I haven’t had one in a while, almost a year probably.”

“Oh George,” Lafayette sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish Martha was here,” George whispers. His legs start to get wobbly again, so he sits down in the wilting grass. “I dreamed about her last night. Then I locked myself in my bathroom and had a huge, two hour breakdown. I just wanted Martha there to hold me. How fucking pathetic is that? Very presidential, right?” George hunches over and tries to count. _One, two, three, four, five. Five, four, three, two, one._

“George, listen to me,” Lafayette says firmly. “One, everyone has emotional issues. Our presidents don’t exactly have a long track record of being emotionally stable. That didn’t keep some of them from being amazing presidents. Lincoln was depressed as hell, but he still managed to emancipate the damn slaves. I’m sure you can handle your sad, dead wife feelings. As long as you don’t have a panic attack in the Sit. Room, which I know you won’t because you know how to stay calm in a crisis, then it’s fine. Second, It’s okay to miss Martha today. You’re being elected president and she isn’t here to see it. It’s natural to miss her.” 

“I would trade being president to have her back.”

“I know.”

“I just want her to come back. I don’t know if I can do this, Gilbert. I really don’t. I don’t think I can be president. I’ve made a huge mistake. I can’t do this.” 

“George,” Lafayette says, his voice commanding. “Calm down before you have another panic attack. Just breathe.”

George takes several deep breaths, counting them in his head. His heart rate starts to slow. 

“Good. Now, I know you can do this. I know that you can be a great president. You are the perfect man to be president, George. You treat people with respect, work well with others, stay calm in crises. You _care_ about people. You’re commanding, smart, a natural leader. You were practically made to be president. Your mother was wrong.”

George sighs and groans in frustration. 

“That’s what this is about, right?” Lafayette says gently. “This is about your mother telling you that you were never good enough, that you would amount to nothing, that you were a sad excuse for a son. Those words cut you deep.”

George winces and sucks in a sharp breath. 

“They did.”

“Well they’re not fucking true. You’ve already amounted to so much. You’re the youngest governor of Virginia; you’re the youngest president-elect. You’re going to be 44 when you get out of office; think of the amazing post-presidency career you’ll get to have. You could be a supreme court justice.”

George huffs a laugh. 

“Hey,” Lafayette snaps. “I’m _serious_ , okay? You need to get your shit together, George fucking Washington. You’re about to become the most powerful man in the world. You need to pick your sorry ass up and get your head in the game. You can’t keep letting all these ghosts haunt you, George. Your mom is literally buried like seven feet under the ground. She’s _dead_. Her opinion of you doesn’t even exist anymore, stop letting it dictate your self worth.”

“Gilbert—”

“I’m not done yet,” he says sharply. “Your wife is _also dead_ , George. Martha is dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. I know you don’t like to talk about it; I know you avoid saying the ‘D-word,’ but it’s time to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get yourself together. You can miss Martha; I hope you do miss her, because that’s healthy, but you can’t let it pull you back under. You were in a really bad place after she died, don’t let all of these negative emotions put you back there. You’re about to be the president. You need to be ready to work, and for that, your mind needs to be as clear as possible.”

“Gil—”

“Hold _on_. You should miss Martha, especially for these next few weeks. The White House is made for a family; the presidency is built upon the foundation of a president and his first lady. Inauguration ceremonies are supposed to include your spouse. The first dance at the inaugural ball is a tradition. So I think it’s okay to miss Martha today. It’s okay to curl into a ball and have a breakdown at four in the morning. But that can’t go back to being your normal. Moving to the White House is going to be a big change, and I know you’re going to feel lonely. Don’t let that drag you back into that dark place, George. You can’t afford to go back there. I won’t let you go back there.”

There’s a long beat of silence as George sits there processing everything, fighting through the various emotions hitting him all at once.

“You can speak now,” Lafayette finally says, his tone more lighthearted now. “Sorry about that. You’re just so stupid and stubborn and _mopey_ that you need a good, stern lecture every now and then to get your head straight.”

George takes a deep breath and lets it whistle out through his nose. The ache is still there, but Lafayette’s talk put things into perspective. George takes another deep, cleansing breath.

“Thank you, Gilbert. I don’t know what I would do without you. You are my closest, most cherished friend, and I’m glad you’ve been with me this whole time. I wouldn’t be heading to D.C. right now if you hadn’t been by my side.”

“You’re so sentimental. It’s gross.”

George tips his head back and laughs. “You know you love me.”

“I absolutely do. Now, you need to be getting ready. You have some event at ten-thirty. I already forgot what it is.”

“So did I.”

“We’re off to a great start then,” Lafayette chuckles. “Now, get ready and then try to nap on the car ride. I’m going to tell the head of your security detail to get someone to pick up some Pedialyte for you so you don’t get dehydrated. Make sure you eat at least one piece of toast before you leave, even if you have to choke it down. We can’t have you passing out today.”

“Yes mother.” George stands up slowly and starts to walk back to the house. Lafayette always knows how to make him feel at least a little better.

He walks back to the house, goes into the kitchen, and pops a piece of bread into the toaster. 

“George? You back?” Alex walks into the kitchen in a pair of boxers. His wet hair is hanging limply around his face, already curling at the ends. 

“Yeah; hey. I’m gonna try to eat some toast.”

“Sounds good baby.” Alex walks over and wraps his arms around George’s waist. “Are you still nauseous? Because I’ve got some Pepto Bismol you can take.” 

“Yeah thanks. That’s a good idea.” George gets himself a glass of water.

Alex goes back to the bedroom and comes back out with a little pink bottle. He taps out two pills and hands them to George. George takes them and finishes off the glass of water. 

“There you go. You’ll feel better soon,” Alex croons. He hugs George from behind and rests his hands on his stomach. “We’ve gotta leave soon. You can’t be late. I’ve heard you’re pretty important.”

“Eh, I don’t think anyone would notice if I’m not there.”

Luckily packing doesn’t take long. Most of his stuff is already in D.C., ready to be moved into the White House. All he has to get is his toiletries and the few changes of clothes he has left. Alex is already dressed in his suit by the time George finishes packing, but George is still in sweatpants and a t shirt. 

George feels Alex’s eyes on him as he changes, and it makes him flush, a familiar warmth starts to pool low in his belly. He looks up to see Alex licking his lips. 

“Sweetheart, you can’t look at me like that if you want me to leave this bedroom any time soon,” George says gruffly. 

“I can’t help it baby,” Alex practically purrs. George’s mouth goes dry and his cock twitches in his pants. He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. 

“No, we need to leave. The drivers should be here soon.”

Drivers. They have to take separate cars of course. George’s will take him straight to Blair House. Alex’s will discreetly drop him off at his apartment. George made sure that he has his favorite Secret Service agents guarding Mt. Vernon; he knows he can trust these guys. 

“I know,” Alex says, sighing dramatically. My car’s coming before yours, so I should probably get ready for it. “I love you so much, and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Alex wouldn’t be at any of the events today. The staff are moving into their West Wing offices. 

“I love you too.” George wraps Alex’s tiny frame into his arms, engulfing him. He rests his chin on Alex’s head. “I wish you could be up there with me,” George whispers. 

“Me too.” Alex squeezes George before letting go. “My car’s here,” Alex says, holding up his phone to show George the text. 

George watches him go, his chest aching. 

Someone knocks on the door, and George grabs his bag. Ben Tallmadge, his head of security, is standing outside. He has a bottle of orange Pedialyte in his hand. 

“Good morning Sir,” he says. “Mr. Lafayette told us to get you some of this to drink on the way to D.C.” He hands George the Pedialyte, and George smiles briefly.

“Thank you Tallmadge.” George takes the cold bottle as Tallmadge reaches for his bag. He holds up his wrist watch to his mouth. 

“Stallion is on the move. Leaving the mountain.” 

“Stallion?” George asks, smirking. “I like it.” 

“Mr. Lafayette suggested Goat, but we decided on Stallion instead.” A hint of a smile twitches at the corner of Tallmadge’s mouth and George laughs. 

“Of course he did. Thank you for deciding on Stallion.”

Tallmadge opens the door for George and puts his bag in the back. George slides into the backseat and opens the Pedialyte. It’s not half bad. 

“Stallion loaded. Wagon pulling out.”

George takes one last look at Mt. Vernon as they pullout. Two police cars are waiting for them at the gate. He quietly raises the privacy screen and sits back in his seat, resting his head against the cool glass of the window and taking periodical sips of the Pedialyte. 

The backseat feels empty, too big for just one person. This was a car built for two, for a team, a family. If Martha were here, she would have a codename too. Something sweet like Sunflower or Springtime. The children they never got a chance to have could be Starlight and Seminole, assuming they had a boy and a girl. 

If Martha were here, she would be holding him against her chest, whispering soothing words into his ear, kissing the top of his head. She would put him at ease, joke with him. She would let him hold her and they would talk about how she wanted to redecorate the White House. They would talk policy, too. Martha was sharp as a tack, and she would have opinions on everything. George would help her decide what her platform would be. She would end up picking something meaningful and policy-drive. Women’s health, improved sex education. Martha would be such a good first lady. 

Lafayette’s words echo in the back of his mind. He can let his mind wander, but he won’t let himself focus on it. He doesn’t want to go back to that place either. It wasn’t a good time in his life. He didn’t shave; he didn’t shower; he couldn’t eat—just smelling food would send him running to the bathroom. He lost 30 pounds, his hair was a tangled mess of thick, coarse curls, and his face was covered in an itchy beard. He slept most of the day, locked away in his room where no one could bother him.

Moving in with the Lafayettes helped a little. He absolutely adored their son Georges, and the young boy would sometimes persuade George to leave his room and come nap with him or watch TV in the living room. 

George had to take a leave of absence from his job. Being governor was too much work. He stubbornly tried to go back about a week after it happened, but he ended up having a very embarrassing panic attack in his office, and Lafayette had to take him home. Luckily, his staff was fiercely loyal, so no one ever found out. He announced his leave of absence, and his Lieutenant Governor, John Jay, took over. 

It took George three months before he could even imagine going back to work, and even when he did, he was just going through the motions. Everyone treated him with kid gloves, like he was a glass figurine that could break into thousands of tiny pieces if you weren’t careful. 

Lafayette finally forced him to see a psychiatrist. He got put on some medicine and was coached on coping methods and ways to channel his anxiety into other activities. He started running and gardening; he taught Georges how to play baseball. 

Then one day, he woke up and realized that the pain wasn’t so bad. It was manageable. He could feel slightly normal. 

And now he’s here. About to be president of the United States. Still missing his wife, but managing. 

Lafayette is right; he can’t afford to go back to that place. He has an entire country depending on him, and he doesn’t want to let them down. He won’t let them down. And he has Alex. Sweet, loving, tenacious, brilliant Alex. His sweet, special boy. Alex can cheer him up in an instant with his sharp wit and keen sense of humor. He can distract George from his worries with long, drawn out rants or discussions. Alex helps George stay above the water line, and George doesn’t want to disappoint him either. 

So, George decides, he will miss Martha for a while—he’ll let the ache consume some of his thoughts, let himself grieve the first lady that he’ll never have—but then he’ll get it together and he won’t let it drag him down. He owes it to Martha. It’s what she would want. 

At the swearing in ceremony the next day, George doesn’t mess up the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to be stopped with my sad George characterization, but I probably never will. Comments always appreciated!


	3. The Inaugural Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I miss my wife,” George blurts out. His voice is shaky, almost unrecognizable. A look of hurt passes across Alex’s face, but he quickly covers it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this has very explicit descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks.

“You know that every single woman here is giving you the eyes, right?” Adrienne Lafayette leans in, whispering conspiratorially. 

“What?” George scoffs. “No they’re not.”

“Mr. President, they most certainly are.”

George is dancing with Adrienne, slowly twirling her amongst the other dancers. His hand is splayed across the small of her back, and his other hand nearly engulfs her delicate hand that he holds aloft. It’s a proper dance, a dance between old friends. Lafayette is off to their right, dancing with Angelica. George rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Adrienne and deftly spins her, eliciting a gentle, melodic laugh. 

“I think you’re exaggerating. Everyone is looking at me because I’m the president. Which is still weird to say, by the way.”

“I know. You keep reminding everyone how weird you feel,” Adrienne teases. 

The band finishes the song, and Lafayette walks up. He looks impeccable in his tuxedo, and as he takes Adrienne’s hand, George is almost in awe of what an attractive couple they are. Adrienne is in a one shoulder, satin white gown, and it hugs her slender figure before flaring out at the bottom. George can almost see the stupid magazine articles about how they’re the most attractive couple in Washington. Lafayette will pretend to be annoyed by them, but he’ll secretly love them and walk around acting cocky as hell. 

“Mr. President,” Lafayette says with a small, mostly teasing bow. “If I may, I believe I will steal my wife back for this next dance.” He winks at George and draws Adrienne in close, kissing her softly. She laughs as he whispers something in her ear. He nuzzles her neck and jokingly nips at it. She lays her head on his shoulder as he pulls her in close.

George’s throat suddenly feels tight as he sees Martha and him reflected in his friends, knows that they would be just like that. She would look beautiful and they would fit together like puzzle pieces that were made for each other. She would move gracefully, right in tune with him, pliable in his arms. They would be the center of attention, but George wouldn’t feel weird about it, because his best friend—the woman he would die for—would be right by his side. 

He quickly turns away and starts walking off of the dance floor, pushing through the throng of dancing, happy couples. A few people try to stop and talk to him—his old war buddy Nathanael Greene, Senator Henry Knox and his wife, his former lieutenant governor and fairly close friend John Jay, but he can’t be bothered to stop. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to hold a conversation without crying, so he just gives them brief, fleeting smiles and tells them that he’s heading to the bathroom, that he’ll be back. 

George’s chest is tight and his throat burns; he needs to breathe soon, but his throat feels like it’s slowly closing in, and his skin feels too tight. The room is too hot and his bowtie is choking him. The combination of the music and people’s voices is overwhelming, so loud that George feels dizzy. 

He managed the night fairly well so far. There was no first dance for obvious reasons, so George simply made his way around, mixing and mingling. He danced with several different people, mostly his friends' or acquaintances’ wives, a couple of times with Angelica and her sisters. He danced with his sister too. She was the one who held the bible for him when he was sworn in. 

He kept his mind off of Martha by wholeheartedly throwing himself into the whole affair. He forced himself to be social, reminded himself to put one foot in front of the other. This was _his_ night. He was president. They were here to celebrate him. He was determined not to spend the entire time huddled miserably in the corner. 

George also spent time with Alex. They couldn’t dance together—people would think that was strange—but they did talk. They stood at the edge of the dance floor and shamelessly cracked jokes about people. George allowed himself to let his hand linger on Alex’s shoulder for just a few seconds longer than needed. He let Alex hug him for a little too long. 

But eventually they were both pulled back onto the dance floor, tugged in different directions. George hasn’t seen Alex in a while. The last time he saw him, he was dancing with Eliza Schuyler. 

George finally manages to break out of the room and he turns his head back and forth, looking for a bathroom or a room to go into. He’s trying to mask his panic for appearance’s sake, but his chest is heaving and his breaths are starting to come out in short pants. 

“Mr. President.” Tallmadge briskly walks up and stands next to him. “Stallion is in the lobby,” he mutters into his watch.

“Tallmadge,” George says through gritted teeth. “Is there somewhere private I can go?” He clenches his fists and tries his best to keep his voice steady. 

“There’s a conference room right upstairs, Sir. Would you like us to take you there?” 

“Yes please. And can you get Alexander Hamilton for me?”

“Sir…” Tallmadge says uncertainly. “There are still people who may be wandering around, Sir. People who may hear things.”

“Tallmadge,” George snaps. “Bring Alexander to the conference room.” 

“Yes Sir.” Tallmadge ushers George up the stairs. “Stallion is moving upstairs to Conference Room A. Duplex, escort Tom Cat to that location.”

Tallmadge leads George to a large, mahogany door. 

“We’ll be out here, Mr. President.” Tallmadge takes his position by the door. Before George goes into the room, he sees other agents walking up the stairs, lining themselves along the hallway. 

The room is huge with a long, polished wood table that stretches down the middle. Plush, comfortable rolling chairs are evenly spaced around it. 

George paces back and forth along the length of the room, trying to calm the erratic beating of his heart. He’s sure it’s going to burst through his chest, cracking his ribs and leaving his skin in tattered ribbons. The blood is rushing so loudly in his ears that it’s one of the only things he can hear. The world around him is distant, something far away from him. He’s in a glass box, watching the world from behind a distorted wall. His stomach roils and churns with an icy nausea that is slowly creeping itself up into his tightened throat. 

“George?” 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts when the door closes with what sounds like the crack of a gun, but is probably only a click. Alex is standing at the front of the room, hovering near the door. He’s shifting his weight back and forth. 

George knows he should answer, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he opens his mouth; he doesn’t want to find out. 

“George, what’s wrong?” Alex says softly. He slowly walks toward George with his hands raised beside him like a mock surrender. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong George. Tallmadge said you were acting weird, but I think he thinks you brought me here to fuck me.”

“I miss my wife,” George blurts out. His voice is shaky, almost unrecognizable. A look of hurt passes across Alex’s face, but he quickly covers it up. 

“I’m so sorry, George. I know this must be hard to do without someone by your side.” 

“I know that I shouldn’t be freaking out like this. Lafayette told me—” George sucks in a ragged breath. “He told me that I can’t go back to this place, but it’s so fucking hard sometimes. I feel so alone, Alex.”

“George, honey, you know that I’m here for you, right?” Alex says softly, timidly. 

“I know, but I can’t hold your hand or kiss you goodbye at Andrew’s Air Base. I can’t dance with you and show you off. We can’t have stolen moments that get captured by the White House photographer. We can’t _be_ anything other than a secret, and it _hurts_.”

George feels his knees buckle and he sinks down to the floor. Alex sits down next to him and pulls George into his chest. 

“Shh, just breathe baby. Try to breathe okay? I know being a secret hurts. It hurts me too, but I’m still here for you. I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

George takes a shuddering, gasping breath. “My panic attacks got better. I didn’t have one for almost an entire year. I didn’t know being president would dredge up all of these old feelings. I thought I’d moved on, but I guess you never really move on.”

“I know honey.” 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about my dead wife with my boyfriend. I just, I needed someone; I needed you.” 

“It’s okay. It’s really okay, George.” Alex kisses the top of George’s head and squeezes him in a hug. “I didn’t know you got panic attacks, George.”

“They’re not so bad anymore. This is just… this is so hard.” George takes a deep breath. “I can’t fucking believe I’m president. I’m sitting on the floor of some random conference room having a melt down during my inaugural ball. Isn’t that a little fucked up?”

Instead of responding, Alex pokes George’s side gently. “Hey, you wanna go to the White House?”

“What?”

“The White House, dummy. Your office and house? You haven’t gotten to spend much time in the Oval Office yet.”

George laughs despite the way he feels—which is pretty awful—and lets Alex help him to his feet. Alex pulls him into a hug. “I love you George. You shouldn’t feel guilty for still missing Martha, okay? I’ll never hold that against you.”

“Thanks Alex. I love you too,” George says softly. “It’s just, things are kind of bad right now, but they won’t always be. I promise.” George kisses Alex gently, an almost chaste kiss at the corner of Alex’s mouth. Alex wraps his hand around George’s neck and squeezes it gently.

The tremors running through George’s body finally start to subside, and he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on Alex’s shoulder. He doesn’t have Martha, but Alex is here for him, anchoring him to earth, keeping him above ground. He’ll never find himself drowning when Alex is with him. 

*******

Alex and George stroll through the West Wing, walking close enough that their shoulders are touching and their fingers brush every few steps. 

When they walk into the Oval Office, George seems momentarily caught off guard and Alex hears the breath catch in his throat.

They slowly walk in, and Alex admires the office. It really is beautiful. It looks like all of George’s stuff is already moved in, and the decorations he chose are up. The cream colored couches he picked out, the red drapes, the blue rug, and the portraits he selected—Presidents Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, Senator Harry Reid, and Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. George’s personal items are already on the shelves and the desk. There are pictures of George with Martha, a few pictures of George and him on the campaign trail, pictures of George and Lawrence. There’s an army helmet and a grenade and some busts sitting on the desk. 

“Is this your helmet?” Alex asks as he walks up and trails his fingers over the gentle slope in the hard material. 

“No; it’s Lawrence’s. That grenade is mine from Iraq, but the helmet is his. I wanted it with me so I could always have something of him that I can look at.” 

It’s such a purely _George_ answer that Alex can’t help but smile.

He trails his fingers over the top of the desk and sits down in the nice leather chair George picked out. He sways back and forth in it, nudging himself with his toes. He lets out an appreciative whistle, breaking the emotionally charged atmosphere George was creating.

“George, baby, you gotta sit back here. I’ve legit never felt more powerful in my life.”

George throws his head back and laughs, the tension in his shoulders finally melting away. He feels a surge of pride and smirks to himself. George walks behind the desk and sits down once Alex stands up.

“I do feel very powerful,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. He runs his finger over the polished wood. I can’t believe this is my desk.”

“I know right? Holy shit George. You’re _president_.” 

George stands up suddenly and strides around the desk. He pulls Alex against him, causing Alex to stumble a little.

He steadies Alex and gently wraps his arms around Alex’s waist. “Dance with me,” he murmurs. Alex hesitantly locks his hands around George’s neck and rests his head on George’s shoulder. 

They sway to a shared rhythm in their heads and George hums softly, the sound reverberating in his throat. Alex sighs and presses his face into George’s warm neck, feeling George’s steady pulse against his nose. He’s wearing the cologne that Alex scrounged up enough money to buy him for his birthday. Alex gently kisses his neck. 

“You’re disgustingly romantic. You know that right?” Alex says, lifting his head to kiss George’s jaw. 

“You like it,” George retorts, his breath hot on Alex’s ear. He kisses Alex’s ear and playfully nips his earlobe. 

Alex shivers and nods. “Maybe a little bit,” Alex whispers before placing an open-mouthed kiss on the hollow of George’s throat. He smirks when he hears George’s breath stutter. They’re still swaying back and forth, not really moving at this point, just shifting their weight. Alex trails open-mouthed kisses along George’s neck, smirking when he feels George’s erection poking his thigh. “My, my, Mr. President,” he says teasingly. “That kind of conduct isn’t very presidential.” 

George growls deep in his throat and turns them so Alex’s back is facing the Resolute Desk. George walks them backward and suddenly hoists Alex up, setting him on the desk. Alex gasps in surprise. 

“I’m the president. Anything I do is presidential,” he says, his voice low and gruff. Alex swallows as he takes in the bulge in George’s tuxedo pants and the hungry look on his face. His pupils are blown and his mouth hangs open a little. Alex can feel his cock twitching in his pants. 

“George,” he whispers. “Someone could walk in.”

“Everyone is at the inaugural balls, and people can’t just walk in on me. I’m president, remember?” George crowds Alex’s space, and gently nudges Alex’s legs open. The breath gets caught in Alex’s throat when George brushes his hand against Alex’s clothed erection.

A bead of sweat rolls down George’s face, and he momentarily stops to tug his tuxedo jacket off, flinging it almost frantically to the side. He starts trying to unbutton his waistcoat, but his hands are shaking too much to pop the small buttons out of their holes. 

“Here baby, let me help you,” Alex says, beckoning George back over to him. Alex carefully unbuttons his waist coat and tugs his tuxedo shirt out of his pants. He unbuttons that too and pushes it off of George’s shoulders. He’s left in only a tight tank, and it makes Alex’s mouth water. 

George starts to unbutton Alex’s pants, and Alex works to frantically remove his own tuxedo. George tugs Alex’s pants and boxers down; they pool at his ankles, hanging down over his shoes. 

Alex’s jaw goes slack as George lowers himself to his knees and noses the underside of Alex’s cock, ghosting hot air over his balls. 

“I love you,” George murmurs before licking a long stripe up the length of Alex’s cock. Alex groans and throws his head back. 

“I love you too,” Alex gasps. 

As George takes Alex’s cock into his mouth, he wonders idly how the American people would feel if they knew that this was what their tax dollars were paying for—a sturdy desk and a plush, comfortable rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows when I'll stop making George sad. Probably never lbr. Hope you enjoyed and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
